


Eternal Life

by kuutar (teapertti)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4151427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teapertti/pseuds/kuutar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But is eternal life just a belief, or a brief illusion, or a promise of the chance to meet again? He would've asked himself and Armin that if there had been time left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eternal Life

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Iankaikkinen elämä](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839047) by [teapertti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teapertti/pseuds/teapertti). 



> Okay, let's not be bothered if the description of a syphilis infection is not scientifically precise. I'm a theologian, not a med school student after all. (This is the translation of the original Author Notes. For the notes on the translation, see the bottom of the page.)

The room was dimly lit and dull. The velvet couches and the wooden tables decorated with carvings might have once been beautiful, but now they were covered in dust, and many would agree that they manifested a rather poor taste anyway. The thick red curtains had been pulled to cover the window; actually Armin had never seen them open, for according to his own words, the person living in the room despised sunlight. It was evening already, so opening the curtains wouldn't make the room any less dark.

Armin closed the door behind him. He had told his servant Antoine to stay outside and ensure that no one would come in, just like he had told him so many times before. The matter did not evoke unrest in him. Antoine would not tell tales about his affairs; Armin was sure of it. For what would he benefit from ruining the reputation of a master that treated him well? Armin proceeded a couple of steps and tried to get accustomed to the dimness. He dug a matchbox out of his pocket and lit the oil lamp that had been placed on the table next to the door. He took the lamp into his hand and started to walk towards the divan couch, where he could discern a slowly moving person.

"Jean, are you awake?" he asked. Jean blinked his eyes and saw a blurry figure forming at the other end of the divan.

"Barely," he replied lazily and tried to see Armin's face in the aureole of the lamp. Round eyes, the mouth shaped like a tight line and the mature, worried expression. Seeing all this pleased him, even though he wrinkled his nose disapprovingly out of an old habit.

"Haven't I told you million times to you not to come without telling me first? I look terrible," Jean said and passed his fingers though his short hair. The wrinkle between Armin's eyes deepened slightly.

"You're sick," he said quietly and sat down to the end of the couch, holding the lamp on his lap.

"Indeed. I'm dying," he told Armin in a light-hearted tone. Armin inspected Jean's face, and the red blemishes that had appeared on his hands, and the eyes that looked dull, although they were still showing the slyness that was so familiar to Armin. He crept nearer and placed the lamp closer to Jean in order to observe his face, the straight nose, the narrow jaw, the almond-shaped eyes.

"There is no rash or boils in your face," he said in an emphatic tone. Jean tilted his head and smiled a little; Armin noticed that he had lost a tooth.

"The devil sure knew what I need for this profession! He might've softened my head and hit my heart but well, the face and the lower body were spared," he laughed. Armin didn't laugh; he felt himself unnerved. He had been aware of Jean's illness for years and demanded him to use protection when he had touched him like that.They hadn't done it in a long time, though. If someone other than Antoine had known about the affair that had existed between them for God knows how long, that person would probably ask if it wouldn't be better for Armin to be with someone who was healthy. Assuming they could do that amongst their disapproval. But then Armin would have to reply that if he wasn't with Jean, he would prefer to be alone, and being alone was rather miserable in the long run.

Jean was wearing an emerald green silk robe, and he was stretching his legs on the divan. Before leaving the town, Armin had hired a doctor to look after him. The doctor's letters had not brought much good news. He had written that the man had gone insane: he had seen wild hallucinations and gone through other fits. He had ordered Jean to go to the asylum. However, the man had managed to escape and stated that the doctor was only allowed to visit him if he was not brought back to that place.Armin and the doctor had no other choice than to consent. Now Jean had become calmer, but the doctor had warned that it was no more than a sign of the decrease of the life force and thus impending death.

Jean spread his arms awkwardly.

"Why won't you come closer? I won't stay here very long. You were my first, and I'd much fancy you to be my last, too! I've still got..." he said and stared without winking at Armin. He shook his head slowly.

"Stop talking nonsense, Jean. You're sick, you've got to rest," he muttered and wiped sweat off of his forehead. He looked around the bleak room that had once been a wonderful salon.

Armin and Jean had known each other since they were very young; their fathers had been business partners and they had grown up in the same area with other high-class children. Armin remembered the fifteen-year-old Jean: rosy-cheeked, intelligent and charismatic. His father Mr. Kirstein had a noteworthy property, but he had made it clear years ago that he didn't trust in Jean's judgment and wanted to share the inheritance between two older siblings. But Jean had found his way out of the situation;he had happened to win some money in horse races, bought his own apartment and started to hold parties for other high-class socialites. He hadn't bothered to go school much, but he had learned his ways from other sources, from peculiar travel logs, from the customers of dusky pubs, from the conversations between his father's business partners. And in the end, people weren't interested in the way he understood the world, but in his charisma; the way he could talk anyone into his side.

Armin's ears turned red when the thought about the way Jean had earned his living during the ten years he had lived away from the mansion of his parents. He didn't often think about this thing, and there was an obvious reason for that. He had been in love with Jean since his face had been full of pimples and his tongue had held fiercer insults than any other boy's in the neighborhood. While growing older Armin had often though if he should consider it as a fortune or misfortune that Jean felt the same about him. He called Armin "his favorite customer" and laughingly explained many times how Armin got free of charge something others had to pay for. But both of them knew it was just empty words, for they were friends; brothers, lovers, partners... depending on one's point of view. Armin asked Jean for help when he was feeling doubtful about a decision he had to make in his family's company and he discussed with him how the political agitation in Europe would affect his business. And during the moments of despair he let Jean wrap his arms around him and let his body shiver under his touch.

"I've completed my will. You'll get everything, though honestly speaking that everything isn't very much. But remember to give the helper boy his pay, for he has done his job well. Speaking of that, he should arrive at some point to bring tea. Antoine probably won't let him in. Oh well. And, please buy something nice with my money for my nephew. At the same time you can inform my family that they can stop pretending that their son is dead," Jean babbled.

"Are you hungry? I brought some food," Armin asked and thought about his belongings he had left outside with Antoine. Jean whisked his hand.

"I'm not eating anything else than gruel anymore. At this point it's no use spending your money in food."

"Have you received many visitors?" Armin inquired; his mind wandered the images of numerous parties that had been hosted in this apartment, where Jean had held literary salon and smoked opium with writers, artists and other rich idlers. Surely someone would pay him a visit, if he indeed was dying?

"Ha! What a question! They won't come to me anymore now when I'm about as interesting as a sea cucumber. This is the point where the real friends are separated from the pretenders. I've always known I've got only one," Jean replied. Armin swallowed. Someone could assume that the lively speech was a mark of recovery, but he knew that this was definitely not the case. The doctor had told him in his message that there probably were changes in Jean's behavior because of the syphilis that had spread to the brain. The Jean Armin remembered would not speak whatever came up to his mind, but instead arrange his words carefully. Or perhaps it was not about the sickness itself, but his way to soothe himself with these things, preparing his mind to the impending end. Armin placed his gloved hand upon Jean's and asked:

"But how have you been? The doctor didn't say much in his letter." Slowly Jean turned his gaze towards him; in the light of the lamp his face looked grim and its features were oddly heavy.

"For a month I saw hallucinations where an angel talked to me and said that I am immortal and that I would arise stronger and healthier than ever. Then, for an another month, I saw visions where the same angel reminded me that death was staring at my face irrevocably and it would take me to the pits of hell. That made me completely numb! Well, now when I look at it, dying isn't such a terrible fate. Think about all those people who get boils on their faces due to this sickness. It's better to die young and beautiful, mark my words!" Jean's voice echoed in the room where almost all furniture had been sold. His speech fell silent suddenly, and Armin squeezed his hand a little tighter. His words were all lies; Jean was afraid, for obviously he didn't want to leave just yet.

"I've been thinking... Listen, I've been thinking about what shall my fate be after death. My mother, that bitter old hag, she always told me that eternal life was not made for boys like me," Armin heard Jean's voice stating. It all confused him, for Jean had never before addressed the subject or even shown signs that he thought about these kind of matters.

"I guess she's right, for when I have been on my knees that certainly hasn't been for saying a prayer... Indeed, if one's sins are as tainted as mine, it probably is pointless to think about the joys of heaven!"

Armin shook his head.

"Try to be reasonable, Jean. You simply can't know what happens after death", he said and once again met Jean's gaze which seemed to harbor a particular gleam; perhaps a sign of the madness that still kept him alive. Jean inspected Armin's face and his hands that were covered with gloves; his round cheeks and narrow neck; his eyes that were ingrained in shock.

"Easy for you to say: you're as sinless and pure as the Virgin herself. Look, if I touched you with this filthy hand, you wouldn't have to fear this sickness, for it is the heaven's punishment for lowly people like me. You've been too good for me, dear Armin, I know very well that in your heart you have detested my way of living and my haughty ways. But since you are virtuous, you've kept your jealous thoughts to yourself. And so, I will die and you will live, keep going on and forget about me." The color of Armin's eyes deepened as he heard these words.

"You've told me so: if you're wise, you should be wary of me. But why should one be wise in love? I love you, and I don't regret even one day of these years spent with you. When you're gone, I'll think about you on every day of my life. Tell me what I can do for you, as a thank you for our times spent together." Armin felt his words getting stuck to the roof of his mouth and becoming muddy; Jean stared at him, stiff and emotionless as a marble statue. Armin wanted to lean his head against the chest of his beloved and cry away the pain of all the past years, and Jean would stroke his hair and whisper his comforting words, just like he used to. But soon all that would be gone.

"If you'll buy me a plot in the cemetery, I'll be more than content! You and the helper boy, was his name Martin or the like? You two can do the arrangements for the funeral, perhaps the money suffices to get someone to do the service. Just be sure that no one gets the idea to make my family do the funeral job; they'd probably cart me down to the gutter, and that wouldn't be nice at all. I want to end up at the cemetery in a coffin. I have prepared the clothes I want to wear there," Jean kept on taking about the practical aspects, but Armin found it difficult to concentrate on his words; he was only thinking about Jean, wearing his best clothes and his eyelids closed, ready to leave to the netherworld or turn into soil or whatever.

"So anyway, there is no way to make my deeds undone. Or do you know, Armin, as you've always been the smarter one of us two, how to attain eternity?" he asked then. Armin blinked his eyes. He didn't know anything about eternity; what was there even to discuss about it? The matter seemed to bother Jean, so he answered:

"I promise to think about it, for your sake." A dreamy expression had formed on Jean's face; they both fell into silence and Armin stroked the back of his hand. Antoine knocked on the door and Armin called Jean's servant boy in to bring tea. However, Jean's strength had diminished; he barely managed to drink his tea more than a few sips. He laid still on the divan and his eyelids drooped. Armin sent the servant boy away and stayed by Jean's side, thinking of his nearing departure and what would wait for him after he had taken his last puff of this life.

Jean woke up to the sunrise that crept between his eyelids through the gap made by the opened curtains. He saw Armin, who had kneeled down at the divan and put his arms and head next to his feet, closed his eyes and seen chaotic and fragmentary dreams.

"Armin! I thought you'd already said your farewell to me", he exclaimed. Armin awoke with a start, looked around for a while and then glanced at Jean. He immediately heard how his voice had turned weaker and more hoarse.

"How could I? You told me to come up with a way into eternity," he replied. Jean lifted his head carefully and smiled.

"And you really took the trouble and stayed? Poor you! You have deserved so much more than I have ever given to you. It is fair that you will be free from my yoke around your neck," he said and coughed. Armin felt a lump in his throat. He would've given anything to be able to keep Jean with him or even get a guarantee that they'll be able to meet somewhere, maybe on the other side.

"Jean, I don't know any means to achieve eternal life. The only comfort I can give you is to say that perhaps eternity doesn't exist," he said finally. Jean's bleary eyes narrowed and then he started laughing a sickly, husky laugh that again ended in coughing. After he had finished he smiled at Armin and said:

"I have asked you too much, once again. Why would I worry about eternal life? I've lived a good life, so it's no use for me to wish for anything more. I've had him, who loves me sincerely, as I do love him, too. I got to see his face and hear his voice before my death, so why would I ask for anything more?" Sighing, Jean nestled his head back into the pillow; his skin was hauntingly pale. Armin felt the tears running down his cheeks even though he tried to keep his expression calm. Life would never continue the same after he had stepped out of this apartment.

"I'll keep you company until your body is completely lifeless," he muttered through the tears and leaner closer to Jean's face. However, Jean's eyes became harder.

"And watch me wither away, helpless as a little baby! That doesn't befit my dignity. I'd like you to remember me as I was before, as your young and virile lover, as someone who wasn't burdened with sorrow and sickness," he replied. Armin wanted to ask if there was anything in this world that Jean would consider not fitting to his dignity, but as he saw Jean's expression he decided to consent to his request. If Jean wanted to die alone, Armin would grant him that opportunity. He rose up and fumbled his pocket in search of a handkerchief. Jean's gaze was peaceful.

"please be happy, for the both of us," he said. Armin nodded and muttered his farewell greetings hastily under his breath. He rushed out, telling Antoine to follow him. It was green and vibrant on the outside; to his subtle surprise nothing had changed, after all. He thought of Jean's face, not as sallow and sickly, but as seventeen years old, full of defiance and life. He thought of his lovely white smile, of how he had sometimes granted it to Armin when they had been in private, dedicating it only to him. He reflected on those times when Jean had acted like his life was eternal, and then again of the Jean who he had just seen lying on his divan and whose body might be lifeless by tomorrow. Those two seemed to be wholly different people, and yet they both would eventually be buried to the same place.

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to Aespren for once again editing my translation. I've had a lot of doubts about this story since the day I finished writing it, but I feel that it works great in English, thanks to the suggestions given by the editor. I think the thematics of this one won't appeal to some readers, but well. In Finnish we say "a cat won't get out of its fur" and I can't stop writing stuff with these kind of themes.


End file.
